


Across The Dark

by IsVampirismGay



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Broken Bones, Can be read as slash, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kidnapping, Not Beta Read, Torture, Whipping, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29685192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsVampirismGay/pseuds/IsVampirismGay
Summary: A band of brigands ambushes the Musketeers and kidnaps their captain.Athos looks for an escape route and his captors exact revenge for their fallen comrades. Morning brings change.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 21





	1. Scars Of Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> this will have two parts, first one will be pure pain and the comfort part will come only in the second chapter
> 
> editing happened, extensively but there might still be mistakes left and if i read this through one more time i'm gonna start hating it too much to post so it is what it is
> 
> fic title from insomnium album of the same name and the title of the chapters are from regain the fire again by insomnium

He shouldn’t have ridden out, but he missed being with them, the all four together like they used to way too much to stay at the garrison. Treville had warned him about it, risking himself on unnecessary missions, but he let himself have this once. It’s been too long since they’ve had Aramis in their midst.

They were ambushed and at this point they shouldn’t have been that surprised and yet they still were. They fought hard, despite being outnumbered killing many of their assailants. The attackers have soon realised they need to cut their losses and they begun retreating towards their horses.

They have also swarmed Athos who was already fighting several men at once. Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan did their best to save him but there just was too many enemies and too few of them and a moment of distraction was enough for something to strike his head and make him woozy enough to be disarmed and grabbed.

He lashed out at the men surrounding him and got kneed hard into stomach. He doubled over, bile rising in his throat and mouth emptily gasping for air. He could hear his friends calling out to him, fighting for him and then there were more hands pulling him up. A familiar line of cold pressed against his throat.

“Stop or he dies!”

He pawed weakly at the arms holding him up and someone quickly grabbed them, making sure he couldn’t move at all.

The world was still blurry from the nausea and he tried to blink it away, looking at his friends who were still pointing their weapons towards the attackers.

The blade pressed harder at his throat.

Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan exchanged wary looks and slowly sheathed their weapons.

One of the men approached him with a rope and his wrists were bound together. The man with the blade at his throat slowly started backing up, pulling Athos with him.

His friends couldn’t mask the fear at the realisation that their captain has been captured, exchanging panicked glances. Athos gave them a little nod, as much as he was able without having his throat sliced. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was trying to achieve with it, helpless as he was at the moment but it felt like a promise anyway.

_Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I won’t give them what they want. Carry on with your mission and you can come for me once you're done._

He was led to a horse, one of the men in the meantime already recharging his pistol, the steel off his throat but threat of death all the same. Another man approached him, tying a blindfold over his eyes and hoisting him up a horse that was tied to their leader’s.

“If my men see you following us we’re shooting him,” warned the leader and they rode away, leading him to God knows where.

* * *

He did his best to peek from the blindfold and engage other senses to find out the route, but all he was able to gather was that he was in some sort of forest, which didn't help him one bit. A particularly determined man could travelled over the whole France without once leaving the forest, despite the numerous fields and vineyards scattered over the landscape.

After what felt like a while they've stopped and helped Athos unsaddle, taking off the blindfold. His hands were still bound and the newly gained sight did not help him determine his location. They were still in the forest, letting the horses rest and refilling waterskins in the nearby stream. Athos noted that the stream ran in approximately same direction as the one they took.

"You can take a piss if you want," he was told.

Athos nodded, deciding to stay obedient for a while. If they've managed to overwhelm him when he was armed and with his friends by his side he had no chances of running away by himself.

After he had relieved himself one of the men made him drink some water. They slowly begun to return to their horses, though Athos was still left a bit further away from them. He tried to observe how they've worked – their relationships and expertise, analysing what kind of threat they were.

Their clothes and armour were mismatched and old, but still functional. They've moved with an ingrained sort of order to their motions, betraying some sort of military background. He tried to see if he'd recognise any emblems or uniforms that he saw on the front, but with no success.

He was blindfolded again and put on the horse, continuing their journey.

* * *

After another while which felt both like an eternity and barely few minutes they've stopped again. They've made him unsaddle, but this time no one took his blindfold. He could hear a jangle of key and creak of doors and he was led inside of a building. The noise from the footsteps betrayed the wooden flooring and the short walk to another doors seemed to indicate that the building was a small house.

Once the doors behind him were closed the blindfold was finally taken off.

He was closed in a small windowless room. The walls were simple and coated with lime while the floor consisted of beaten ground. It must have had floorboards not too long ago, the lines in the dirt still visible. There was no furniture, only a ragged sheet and some hay in the corner.

There was only one man in the room with him. He didn't recognise him from earlier, most likely a part of the group that was waiting for the others to return with their captive.

It was unsettling to know that someone has not only planned to catch them by surprise but also succeeded in doing so. There were a few possible culprits, though Athos wasn't sure if that wasn't yet another unknown threat emerging from the woodwork.

"Were you a soldier?" he asked the man. He obviously was, but Athos hoped to learn more from him.

"You're not here to ask questions," the man replied and cut off his binds. "If you know what's good for you you'll stay nice and quiet like you were on the way here."

Athos nodded mutely. He got stripped of his leathers and the man exited the room. Athos tried to catch a glimpse of what was behind the doors, but only got a brief glance of another soldier on the other side.

He was left alone in the little cell. There was no noise from the outside aside from an occasional jangle and shifting noises, indicating that here was most likely only one guard. It didn't help Athos' situation as the doors remained firmly barred from the outside.

He checked himself over, taking inventory of every scrape or bruise on his body. His hands felt a bit numb and his shoulders ached from being forced into the same position for so long, but after a few careful stretches he felt a lot better. His head sported a nasty bruise from the strike, but overall he didn't feel concussed.

He was worried.

From years of experience he's learned that open cruelty was a sign of incompetence. The men who caught him seemed to have no interest in it, instead springing a trap and once he was caught leaving him more or less untouched.

They were saving him for something. Either to use as a bargaining chip or to be interrogated.

Knowing his luck, it was probably the latter.

He allowed himself a moment of weakness, cursing. He knew what things people had to endure during interrogation, having been to the dungeons enough times to see all of their ugliness. It wasn’t likely to make him spill any secrets but it wasn’t going to be a pleasant experience.

There was noise outside and Athos steeled himself, trying to find the most strategic position in the room. It was too small and barren to really contain any overly advantageous positions, so instead he hid behind the door.

There was some arguing and heated talk, several people speaking over each other and rendering the conversation mostly incomprehensible. Still, Athos caught some words, something about killing, many men and deserving it.

He didn’t need to hear the rest to know that spelled quite a miserable future for him.

The door opened and in spilled a small group of men.

“There you are,” growled one of them.

Athos recognised him from before, one of the men that caught him. He took a careful step back, heel already hitting the wall.

“Not so brave now?” taunted one of his accomplices. He was also one of the men that were present in the initial attack.

“If you went through all this trouble getting me here,” Athos slowly said, “I suppose that it would be counter-productive to kill me now?”

The supposed leader  glowered . “We’re not going to kill you.”

More men seemed to be outside the doors.

The man roughly grabbed Athos by the collar. “ We’re just going to say our piece before the main event tomorrow .”

He was shoved towards the other three that were standing near the entrance. One of them bound his hands again, Athos suppress ing a groan. The binds weren't particularly bad –  it was the cramps in shoulders that he despised.

They've led him out to a decaying barn. More men followed them on the way, dark expressions on their faces. He tried to take in the surroundings as much as he could.

The house was a small but sturdy one. The walls were thick and the materials used seemed better than what a regular commoner could afford. There was an animal shed nearby and a big backyard with a still discernable way leading into the forest. Remains of an old tree trunk were decaying, haphazardly left on the path a long while ago.

If this was a lumbering area then a river wouldn't be too far away. He tried to see where the path out lead, but he got cuffed none-too-gently on the head when his attempts of locating them became too obvious. He still managed to catch the general direction, which according to the setting sun would have been somewhere to the south-west.

He hoped that he would actually have the chance to use all those findings but it looked like it would have to wait. There were too many men for him to deal with, especially not in his current state. He counted about ten of them in near vicinity but it looked like there was more around.

The attacking group was about fifteen men strong and each of the Musketeers must have killed or incapacitated at least two. He suspected that there were about two more that stayed at the house, which put him at about ten to one odds.

He let them push him into the centre of the barn, men surrounding him. He stumbled, catching himself just before he could faceplant into the dirt. Someone closed the doors behind them.

"Alex." The man who first approached him was now looking at him accusingly. "Does this name mean anything to you?"

Athos shook his head.

He got slapped in the face, hard.

"Well, you should."

Another slap, this time backhanded.

"You and your friends killed them today."

"We were attacked," Athos replied.

It seemed to be the wrong answer as he got struck for the third time, this time hard enough to make him stumble.

The man was taking off his belt. He handed the items it held to one of his comrades and then turned back to Athos, wrapping one end around his hand.

Athos tracked the longer end with his eyes. The metal buckle was dangling from it, sparse light of the setting sun colouring it in fiery brightness.

It whistled through the air and Athos just had enough time to raise his arms as pain flared up in his side and the buckle hit a particularly painful spot in the back. He stumbled but kept his arms up, trying to shield his head the best he could.

"This was for Alex," the man said and the belt whooshed through the air again.

Another lash hit him, this time the buckle landing on his spine, making his knees give out as his vision went momentarily blank from pain.

"And for Hugo."

The strike landed before he's had the opportunity to get back up or even regain some balance. Then another one followed. The man was saying more names, presumably the men who died earlier that day. Athos couldn't pay attention to the words anymore, pain being too sharp and present for him to focus on anything else. He didn't try to rise up, instead he curled in on himself, bound hands cradling his own head as he tried to protect his most important facilities.

The buckle was the worst, leather painting sharp lines of hurt over his back and the metal being a horrible exclamation mark at the end. He couldn't help but twitch at certain strikes, the buckle landing on nerves that made his entire body light up.

The man wasn't speaking the names anymore, just swinging the belt with abandon.

After a particularly hard and vicious flurry of hits the onslaught finally ended and Athos was left gasping on the floor. He could feels the stickiness of the blood in his shirt, dripping off to the sides.

Too soon he was hauled back up, legs barely supporting him. The man he was facing was a different one, but still familiar from the fight earlier in the day. The light outside was dying out, last few sunrays illuminating the scene in orange light.

"Do you even remember their faces?" asked the man. His voice was barely audible and on the verge of breaking.

* * *

As much fun as they could have on the job, they were still in the business of killing, Athos was well aware. As a soldier he would willingly deal death for his king and now that he was a captain he's also lead his own men into death.

When he joined the regiment he had hoped that the either the job would kill him or that killing others in the name of France would somehow erase  _her_ death from his mind. He didn't feel particularly guilty for all the men he's killed in combat as he's known they would've done the same to him.

The faces still came back to haunt him when he tried to sleep.

* * *

"Every single one," Athos answered.

The man turned around, his shoulders hunched. Athos could see the other men casting him concerned looks, but then he abruptly swung around and landed a hard punch on Athos' face, knocking him down again.

Athos' vision was speckled with white dots and the world swam in front of his eyes. He was vaguely aware of the blood dripping down from his nose onto the ground.

He got kicked, boot straight into his ribs. It rolled him over and rendered him breathless, whole body aching.

"Pierre, no!"

A sword was pointed at his heart now. The wielder was staring him down, gaze hard and unreadable. Then he moved the sword down, taking a moment to draw a long red line over his chest before taking the blade to his bound wrists. He cut the rope, struggling a bit as the long blade wasn't suited for such tasks.

He put away his sword and bent down, grabbing Athos' right arm.

Athos' heart jumped all the way up into his throat, fear gripping and whispering _what if they destroy your sword arm forever, what will you do with your life then?_ There were some remainders of his pride urging him to struggle, to give the man a hard time, but the dead men's visages floated in his consciousness. He was too afraid of facing them if he had denied their comrades this little peace, as twisted their methods might have been.

He got turned onto his front again, the right arm still held up. He knew what was coming and he still couldn't hold in a cry as the arm got yanked out of its socket. Strong hands were still gripping his wrist and the already abused limb got kicked a few times, putting a dangerous strain on the elbow.

He was let go and immediately rolled to his side, cradling the injured arm and trying to swallow down the feeling of nausea.

The man walked away.

Another one approached.

He drew his dagger and knelt next to Athos. His fingers wound into Athos' hair, lifting his head off the ground.

Athos' eyes trailed the point of the dagger, now dangerously close to his eyes. Another wave of nausea swept over him, this time not of pain but of primal fear.

The sharp metal waved horrifying near his eye and then it travelled up, until it cut a clump of hair. Athos was released, his head falling back to the floor.

One of the men at the exit has lit a torch by now, the last rays of setting sun gone and the barn getting dim. The man held the lock of hair to the fire until it all burned through, cursing under his breath the whole time. He spat and stomped on the ashes and left the barn.

Athos was hauled up by his uninjured arm, the sudden rough movement making him cry out weakly. He was half-led, half-dragged back to his cell. He didn't even think of attempting any escape, too focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

They've stopped at the threshold of Athos' cell. He took the opportunity to catch a breath, ribs still aching every time he tried to breathe deeper.

The dislocated arm got grabbed again, Athos not being able to hold in a little cry of pain. He was pushed a bit further into the room, stretching out his injured arm. Then the door got slammed shut, heavy wood hitting his lower arm trapped between the door and the frame.

There was a sickening crunch and a scream of pain tore from Athos' throat. The door was pushed open again and his arm was released. He collapsed backwards, leaning on the wall and cradling the broken and dislocated limb. The man stood in the doorway for a few seconds before wordlessly closing it, leaving Athos in darkness.

He slowly slid down to the floor and clumsily scooted over to the corner where the hay and blanket were. He forced himself to take even breaths, hissing when the straws poked at his bloodied back. He tried leaning to his side, which was still sore but less than the back and cushioned his injured arm.

They've gone specifically for his sword arm, either focusing their revenge upon the literal hand that killed their comrades or trying to mangle it so it could never kill again.

He'd hoped that his friends were near, that Aramis would get to him and set his joint and bones before it was too late.

He still didn't know what he was there for, the men seemingly without any direction aside from the necessary lead in the fight.

He readjusted his position again. He'd have to clean the lashes somehow and set the shoulder. It wasn't impossible to do it by himself, but the double pain of the dislocation and broken bones was too much. Every little jostle sent excrutiating pain down his arm and he felt too weak to set any bones, let alone his own.

It would have to wait for tomorrow.

Judging by the words of the man from earlier tomorrow he's going to get questioned and this was just a little precursor of what was waiting for him. It would explain why they kept their punishment mostly surface level.

There was no way to sleep comfortably in that position on hay. But then again, it wasn't possible to be comfortable at all with all the lashes and bruises littering his body.

He wrapped the ratty blanked around himself the best he could and closed his eyes.


	2. Never Defeated By Anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> people come and questions are raised

Angry shouting roused him from his sleep. He didn't sleep well, or rest much, but he was still disoriented and confused as he blinked around blearily. The room was dark, save for the few rays of sunlight escaping through the gap below the door.

He groaned, slowly pulling himself upright and shedding the blanket. His arm was still hurting, as was his torso and his head. The pain has transformed from the sharp, biting one to a dull throbbing that didn't seem to assault his senses that badly, but still clouded his mind, like ocean waves trying to pull him under.

Door swung open and a man angrily stalked in. He looked around for a moment, before spotting Athos to the side. He knelt down to him and Athos couldn't help but flinch away from the foreboding presence.

Then he squinted at the man's face. "I saw you at the battlefield," Athos said, voice rough from sleep.

The man didn't answer. "I have to apologise for my men," he said instead. "They acted of their own accord when they've hurt you." His hands prodded at Athos.

"This is the dislocated one?" he asked, pointing at the injured shoulder.

"Yes," Athos answered and immediately screamed as the man set the joint back into its place.

"Get up," the man commanded as Athos struggled to regain his breath.

He struggled to get up without aggravating his wounds too much and the man took him by the uninjured arm, hoisting him up with an unusual amount of care. He led Athos to a different, larger room and placed him onto a chair.

The man sat himself down on the other chair, a small table between them.

"You're Athos, the Captain of the Musketeers," he said.

Athos studied him. "That I am," he replied. "But who are you?"

"You may call me Grimaud." He leaned on the table, looking Athos straight in the eye. "You behave very strangely for a commander of His Majesty's most elite guard."

"I've been told so."

"When the refugees were blamed for the grain theft you came to their rescue."

Athos stayed quiet.

"You kept defending them in spite of proof suggesting their guilt. Why?"

"We had sufficient grounds to think there was more to it," Athos carefully answered.

"Yet when the veterans tried to get their justice you went against them until you've both been attacked by the Red Guard." The man's gaze was hard and unrelenting. "Why?"

"Their cause was overshadowed by their threats to the king. We are His Majesty's guard first and foremost."

Grimaud's face darkened even more. "You're a strange man, _Captain_ ," he said, spitting out the title. "And a hypocritical one too."

Athos's eyebrows knotted together. "And what authority do you have to make such judgements?" he asked, voice strangely soft.

"All." Grimaud stood up and leaned on the table so he was towering over Athos' battered form. "You claim to protect the people yet you turn your back on them the moment your childish king demands you to."

"We are the King's Musketeers first and foremost," Athos repeated.

"And what if that woman, Sylvie Bodaire provokes the king next?"

Athos' face turned ashen. "Don't you dare drag her into this."

Grimaud tilted his head. "She has dragged herself into this the moment she decided to host her little weekly gatherings," he replied. "How long do you think they'll last before the king will order you to arrest her and then have her executed for treason?"

Athos pressed his lips together.

Grimaud sat back down. "If you change your mind there's always other people that could use your talents," he said almost conversationally. "Might even let your mistress slip away alive."

"Are you proposing I join you?" Athos asked. "You do have to realise your men have just tortured me."

"And I am sorry about that," Grimaud said, anger creeping into his voice. "I've made sure they have answered for it."

Athos was carefully watching him. The man across him seemed to be strangely upset by the thought of his men hurting Athos.

"I am proposing you save your skin," Grimaud continued, the cool facade back on. "The king will sooner or later find out about you and Sylvie Bodaire and once he does you both will hang for treason."

"And if I join you we'll be spared?"

"If you join the king might not be alive for long enough to have you executed," Grimaud answered.

Athos raised an eyebrow. "And his successor will be so much more just and merciful."

"This king governs France like a child playing with his toy soldiers," Grimaud hissed. "The moment he's not entertained by a toy he destroys it. How is that just and merciful?"

"You talk a lot about justice and mercy for a man seemingly incapable of neither," Athos said.

Grimaud pinned him with a stony look. "I've learned I can't expect any justice or mercy in this word," he said. "The only way one can get anything is with force and power."

"That's a very bleak outlook," Athos commented.

"The world is bleak, Captain. Better get used to it before your idealism gets you buried."

"You're very concerned with my death," said Athos. "More than I used to."

Grimaud shot him a strange look. "And what made you care about it?" he asked, voice rough.

Athos looked down at his hands for a moment before facing Grimaud again. "I've made friends," he simply said. "And they've helped me make peace with my past."

Grimaud held his gaze, face unreadable. "Friends only make you weak," he whispered hoarsely. "They are with you only as long as it fits them."

Shots echoed through the morning air and both Athos and Grimaud lunged out of their chairs into cover. Athos cried out as his battered body protested against the rough movements, but he pressed back to the wall regardless of the wounds on his back. Grimaud was right beside him, gun drawn and ready to shoot.

"If you try anything I'm killing you," Grimaud said quietly and peeked through the slightly open door.

There was some motion visible, although nothing that would suggest any enemies in immediate vicinity. Grimaud slipped through the opening and closed the door just before Athos could follow, barring it behind himself.

Athos sagged against the wall for a moment and then moved towards the window. It was small and the walls were thick, but he could see some of the action going on. The men were running towards the other side of the building that Athos couldn't see, but there was some of them lying wounded or dead that he could see.

He also noticed a half-dug grave at the edge of the forest and a body wrapped in a blanket. He didn't remember any badly wounded men riding with them yesterday.

There was a gunshot, some more swords clashing and finally-

"Athos!"

"Here!" he answered. "Barred door to the east!"

Soon enough there was commotion at the door and d'Artagnan has rushed in.

"Oh my God, Athos!"

He hurried to his side. "What happened?" he asked, taking in the bloodied face and shirt and the way Athos was cradling his sword arm.

"Soldier taking out their grief," Athos curtly answered. "I'll need Aramis to look at my arm."

D'Artagnan nodded. "Can you walk?"

Athos nodded.

D'Artagnan led him out, keeping a concerned eye on his motions. Porthos and Aramis were outside guarding one man that was left alive. Their faces immediately brightened when they've seen him but fell almost equally as quickly as they've noticed just the sheer amount of _blood_ on him.

"Jesus Christ," cursed Aramis and abandoned the hostage, immediately rushing to Athos' side.

"He’s got a broken arm,” d’Artagnan told Aramis. He led Athos to sit down on the small rock wall surrounding the courtyard.

“I’m so sorry we couldn’t come rescue you sooner,” Aramis said, tearing Athos’ sleeve away so he could look at his arm properly. He touched it lightly, feeling for the bones and trying to detect a break.

Athos hissed slightly, pain sparking up once again. D’Artagnan placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. Athos allowed himself to lean into it.

“What do we do with this one,” Porthos asked, pointing at the cowering man.

“He might know something,” Athos said. “Did you see Grimaud?”

“Who’s that?”

Aramis left his side and looked around the edge of the forest, rummaging through the leaves and sticks on the floor.

“Their leader.” Athos closed his eyes, recalling Grimaud’s figure. “Short, dark clothes and dark hair, beard. Moves like an assassin.”

Porthos shook his head. He kicked the man on the ground. “Maybe you can tell us where he went,” he said, voice dangerously conversational.

“I- I- I don’t know!” stammered the man.

Aramis found a nice, straight stick on the ground and he picked it up, taking his medical kit from the horse. He stopped next to Porthos, staring the man down harshly.

“You better think again,” he said darkly. “Or you’ll find out just how well medics know how to hurt people.”

The man looked between the two of them.

“I don’t know!” he exclaimed desperately. “I think he lives in Paris but he didn’t tell us anything!”

“Athos?” Porthos exchanged looks with him.

Athos nodded. “Makes sense,” he said.

Aramis split the stick in two, placing the halves on each side of his broken arm and firmly binding them together. He gently tested the give and once satisfied let Athos’ arm rest in his lap.

“How is the face?” he gently asked. He brushed Athos’ hair back, studying his bloodied features.

“Nothing broken,” Athos replied. “Just lots of bleeding.”

Aramis nodded, not letting go of his face for a moment.

“You think these were just mercenaries?” Porthos asked.

“Yes, I swear!” the man interrupted.

“Wasn’t asking you,” Porthos growled, prodding him with the sword. He looked back to Athos.

Athos nodded. “I think Grimaud wanted to do this without drawing too much attention,” he said. “He must have someone else backing him, someone with his own military force, but I think he wanted something more disposable for this.”

D’Artagnan’s hand finally left his shoulder and he drew his sword, approaching the man.

“Hear that?” he asked. “It looks like you’re useless to us.”

The point of his blade touched the man’s throat. “Give me one good reason why we should let you live.”

“Leave him,” Athos said.

All three of his friends looked at him.

“He’s unimportant, leave him,” he repeated.

“After everything they’ve done to you?” d’Artagnan asked, temper flaring up.

Athos met his look with a strange sense of calm. “Yes,” he answered.

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to argue, then thought better and closed it. He put away his sword.

“Looks like it’s your lucky day,” Porthos grumbled and withdrew his weapon too.

“May I-” the man cleared his throat. “May I bury them?” he asked, voice wavering.

Porthos inclined his head. “After we’re gone from here,” he replied. “Don’t trust you skulking around with weapons laying all around.”

The man nodded and sat himself up, head down and hands picking apart blades of grass.

Aramis gently tugged on Athos’ shirt. “May I?” he asked.

Athos nodded. Aramis cut the shirt off with his dagger, peeling the fabric where it stuck to the skin and cuts with blood. Athos hissed as the fibres were pulled from the open wounds, dry and crusted blood making the removal all the harder.

"Porthos?" Aramis called out. "Can you get me the water and alcohol?"

Porthos nodded and retrieved requested object from the horses. He handed it to Aramis who has in the meantime removed the rest of Athos' shirt, exposing his ruined back. Porthos couldn't hold in a quiet growl as he looked at the lines criss-crossing over Athos' back, punctuated by the deeper tears and bruises that the buckle left behind.

Aramis pressed a kiss into Athos' hair before taking the water skin. He offered it to Athos who gratefully drank some and then he wet a not-so-dirty scrap of the shirt and slowly started cleaning congealed blood off the skin.

He started off with his face, touch light as he dabbed the wet cloth around Athos' bruised features. Athos let his eyes fall shut, leaning slightly into Porthos who was standing by his side.

"Much better," Aramis murmured as he was done. He inspected Athos' face once more, gently holding it in place with one hand. He let go, seemingly satisfied with the results and took another scrap of fabric.

"I'll have to clean your back now," he told Athos as he moved behind him. Porthos leaned down, kissing the crown of Athos' head and then crouching in front of him.

"How did this happen?" he asked, his voice rough and quiet.

"They were supposed to take me and do nothing until Grimaud came," Athos mumbled. "Instead they..." he trailed off, trying to find words. "They were grieving over their fallen friends and punished me for their deaths."

"Grimaud didn't order them to hurt you?" d'Artagnan asked. He was still guarding the remaining survivor.

Athos shook his head.

"He got really angry," the man spoke up, voice unsure. "I told Pierre he wouldn't want us to do anything he didn't told us but he didn't listen."

D'Artagnan automatically held his sword on the ready and relaxed as he saw that the man didn’t seem to have any intentions of attacking them.

The man swallowed a sob. “And when Grimaud found out he killed him!”

“The grave and the body,” Athos said. “on the other side. That was Pierre?”

The man nodded.

“What are you going to do after this?” d’Artagnan asked.

The man shrugged. “It’s not like there’s many employment options for deserters,” he said.

They sank into silence again.

Aramis poured one last bit of water over Athos’ back and put down the cloth he was cleaning him with.

“I’ll have to pour alcohol over your wounds now,” Aramis said quietly. “Sorry.”

Porthos reached down, grabbing Athos’ healthy hand and lightly squeezing it.

Athos hissed as the alcohol hit the exposed flesh. His hand gripped Porthos’ hard, knuckled going white. It continued on like this, hisses becoming pained groans when larger wounds were disinfected. He clung to Porthos who was resting his free hand in Athos’ hair, gently brushing through the dirty locks.

“It’s done,” finally announced Aramis, putting his things away. “It would be good to leave these to dry.”

Athos nodded.

“I think the rest of your things are inside,” spoke up the man. “We put them together with other equipment.”

I’ll check,” Porthos offered. He let go of Athos and slipped inside.

D’Artagnan tilted his head. “You’re being very helpful,” he said. “Why?”

“I don’t really have any quarrel with you,” the man answered. “I did my job, but it’s not worth dying over.” He sighed, burying his head into his hands. “I’m just so tired of _death,”_ he said quietly.

The musketeers exchanged looks.

“You look like a capable man,” Athos spoke up. “If you travel far enough north no one will know you’ve deserted. You could be a farmer.”

The man looked at him. “If they don’t find me on the road there first,” he replied.

“Well, you’ll just have to try and see,” d’Artagnan added.

Porthos returned with Athos’ things in his lap. “Found these next to some extra cloaks and food,” he announced.

“Food?” inquired d’Artagnan.

Aramis took Athos’ equipment from Porthos, carrying it towards the horses. “Can you get us some of that?” he asked.

“Of course.” Porthos disappeared inside with an extra spring in his step, making d’Artagnan chuckle good-naturedly.

“How did the rest of the mission go?” Athos asked.

“Well enough,” d’Artagnan answered. “We found the documents, threw them into the fire and rode back as fast as the horses would let us.”

Athos nodded. “Wouldn’t want you to compromise the mission for my sake,” he said quietly. “Regardless of how bad things might go.”

“Oh, Athos.” D’Artagnan was looking at him, face open and unguarded. “If we thought you’d get killed we would never abandon you for a moment.”

“But the mission-”

“Damn the mission!” d’Artagnan interrupted. “You’re more important than any mission.”

“Head over heart, d’Artagnan,” Athos said wearily. “Head over heart and duty first.”

“My first duty is to my wife and my friends,” d’Artagnan said. “Then it’s to the king and the country.”

Athos let his gaze wander around the tips of trees and the bright morning sky. “I can’t afford this sort of thinking,” he confessed, turning his eyes back to d’Artagnan. “I’m supposed to be your Captain.”

“You’re not our Captain all the time,” d’Artagnan said. “Let your life be more than service to the crown.”

Athos closed his eyes, letting the sunshine warm his face. “I am not sure if I can,” he finally said, opening his eyes again, “But I’ll keep your words in mind.”

“That’s all I can ask for,” d’Artagnan replied. He sat down on the ground next to Athos. “It’s such a nice day,” he commented. “I’ve missed the sun.”

Athos didn’t answer. D’Artagnan didn’t expect him to, instead they just sat, basking in the sun. Soon enough Porthos returned, carrying a table and a few chairs. He’s prepared them a whole feast, the supplies being meant for a much larger company than just the five of them. They’ve sat the deserter between Porthos and d’Artagnan and the furthest away from Athos, but didn’t try to ration his meal any more than their own.

They ate in silence, but not an uncomfortable one. Once they were done Porthos bundled up the remaining food in five equal portions, giving one to the brigand.

Aramis approached Athos with his sash in his hands. “You need a sling,” he said. “Allow me to put it on?”

Athos nodded, letting Aramis gently manipulate his injured arm into a right position to put into sling. Aramis reached around Athos to tie the sash into a proper sling, leaning into him. Once he’s tied and tested the knot he hesitated, arms still around Athos. He drew him into a gentle hug, due to the injuries cradling his head more than anything.

“We’re never letting them take you like this again,” Aramis said quietly. Athos held onto him with the healthy arm.

They finally drew apart. Aramis brushed Athos’ hair back.

“One thing,” Athos finally said.

“Anything.”

Athos looked him square in the eye. “Please don’t leave us like you did ever again.”

“I promise.”Aramis held his gaze for another moment, letting Athos see the vulnerability in his face. Then he averted his eyes. “I should help Porthos,” he mumbled and left Athos to sit in peace.

Porthos and d’Artagnan have recruited the man to help move the furniture back in. Porthos was overseeing them, instinctively turning around as Aramis approached. They’ve exchanged some words and Porthos nodded, picking the last of the chairs and carrying them inside.

Once they were done they’ve gathered outside the house. Aramis awkwardly cleared his throat.

“I was a monk,” he said slowly and turned towards the brigand. “I could do the last rites for your comrades.”

The man swallowed a lump. “I would appreciate that,” he replied. He hesitated for a moment. “The name’s Denis, by the way.”

Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan introduced themselves too and they went to work together. Porthos quickly created an efficient system of digging the graves and preparing the bodies while Athos was left to rest in the sun, watching his friends at their grim task. Soon enough enough graves were made and Aramis took out his rosary, standing at Pierre’s grave and reciting his prayers.

Porthos quietly left the group and joined Athos. He sat down on the ground and rubbed his face with his dirt-stained hands. They left dark marks, muddier than they should have been from sweat alone.

“I never did well with funerals,” he said, voice rough.

“I was told you even cried at my fake one,” Athos replied.

Porthos nodded. “It’s just the thought of it,” he said, wiping his face once again. “I don’t know if I could handle being in Denis’ shoes.”

“I don’t think any of us would,” Athos replied.

Porthos nodded, more tears escaping down his face. “This is the only family I have,” he said. “I don’t know what I’d do without it.”

“We’re not dead yet,” Athos said after a moment of thought. “We shouldn’t worry about things that probably won’t happen anytime soon.”

“You’re right.” Porthos sighed, leaning on Athos’ leg. “I thought I’ve made my peace with death on the front,” he finally said. “But seeing you like this, battered and covered in blood...” He picked at the ribbon on his breeches, toying with the frayed end. “I can’t let anyone hurt you like this again.”

Athos reached down with his healthy arm, squeezing Porthos’ shoulder. “I’m here,” he said. “And I’ll be okay.”

Porthos took his hand and kissed it, then held it against his cheek.

“We’ll be fine,” he finally muttered. “And nothing can separate us again.”

They sat together, watching Aramis and d’Artagnan help Denis bury his dead. Porthos still cried a bit, still holding onto Athos, but they didn’t exchange any more words. They didn’t have to.

After the last man has been given his rites Aramis and d’Artagnan joined Athos and Porthos.

“We should get going,” d’Artagnan said. Athos nodded and together with Porthos they got up and made their way to the horses.

“I should dress your back so you can put on some clothes,” Aramis said. Taking a sheet from the house, he produced a number of long strips of fabric and covered Athos’ wounds. D’Artagnan helped him put on his doublet, carefully manoeuvring his injured arm through the sleeve. After placing it back into the sling Porthos hoisted him up on the horse.

Denis was helping them put their supplies and equipment back on horses, moves fluid but the expression on his face strangely devoid.

“Are we prepared?” Athos asked.

Getting assent from his companions he spurred the horse to leave, giving Denis one last glance before leaving the farm.

* * *

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Denis?” Porthos inquired.

“Yes.”

Athos thought of him, a hunched little figure surrounded by graves at an empty home.

“He’ll need time,” he finally said. “If he gets away from here and finds something to dedicate his life to yes, I believe he will.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “Makes sense, I suppose.”

They rode in silence for a while.

“What did Grimaud want from you anyway?” asked Aramis.

“Oh, that one’s unusual.” Athos frowned, thinking about that strange, horrible man. “He wanted me to join him.”

“You?” Porthos asked incredulously. “Join him?”

“What did he offer you?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Peace,” Athos replied. “The ability to run away once the king is dead and live safely with Sylvie.”

“Strange offers,” Aramis commented.

“He also called me a hypocrite,” Athos added. “For caring about the people yet being in His Majesty’s service.”

“What does he know about care?” wondered d’Artagnan.

Athos sighed. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I think he’s spoken with Sylvie because he raised the same argument as she did.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s got a point,” Porthos grumbled.

They trotted further down the road.

“I cannot ignore the fact that the king is unfit for rule much longer,” Athos confessed. “Sooner or later working for him will be to work against the people.”

The other three remained silent.

“And I don’t know if I’ll be able to do the right thing when the time comes,” Athos said quietly.

“But things are not quite like that yet,” Porthos said.

Aramis inclined his head in thought. “One step at a time,” he agreed.

“We wouldn’t let you go down that path,” d’Artagnan added. “Or else Sylvie would have all our hides.”

Athos snorted, gloominess lifting like morning fog under sunlight.

“You’re right,” he said, tilting his face to bask in the warm spring sun.

**Author's Note:**

> as always you can find me on tumblr as dropdeadjack and if you comment i'm mentally sending you a big fat kiss


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